


everything feels like a tragedy in the dark

by Frenchibi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Nightmares, this is Soft and I'm not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-05-29 17:18:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19404688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frenchibi/pseuds/Frenchibi
Summary: After the supposed apocalypse and Heaven and Hell’s punishments, Crowley is haunted by a nightmare of losing an angel.





	everything feels like a tragedy in the dark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [greenstickynotes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenstickynotes/gifts).



> > Oh the cool of your whisper, a wave to my heart, as the end of the storm takes us back to the start  
> Where you'll be thunder, and I'll be the rain, and tonight we can shake like an old hurricane  
> Is there rest for the weary? These fists and these tongues  
> these knuckles, these nails, these wrists and these lungs  
> Lover, stir up the pool, lead me down to the deep  
> Where the ocean burns white, and the water, it speaks  
> Oh, everything feels like a tragedy, **everything feels like a tragedy in the dark**  
> 
> 
>   
> please listen to [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mAkCWyl6u_Y) and cry with me
> 
> This fic is for Isabelle, whom I adore and whose excitement gives me life and fuels my creativity. More Omens to come, for sure. ((I love you Belle thank you so much))

He wakes with a scream attempting to claw its way out of his throat, dry and painful, and clamps his jaw shut to force it back down. He’s drenched in cold sweat, and the sheets are knotted around his legs in a frantic tangle.

Shit.

He sits up, clenching his hands into fists, tight enough that his fingernails slice into his palm.

It's like relearning how to breathe, to calm his racing heart - convincing himself he’s not really smelling smoke and burning paper.

Just a blink away, he’s covered in soot and heat rolls over his skin, aggressively lapping at all that is exposed. There’s sirens and ashes and a book half-buried in rubble. There’s shattered lenses, and a world breaking apart. There’s-

Crowley shudders, shaking his head to bring himself back to reality. The room around him feels like it’s getting smaller and larger all at once, dark and cold and bare, despite the efforts the angel had clearly taken to decorate the place. The scattered books, lamps and the extra pillows don’t look charming in this light - rather like something from a horror flick, lifeless and abandoned.

Crowley forces an exhale. It’s not _ abandoned.  _ Aziraphale is safe, he’s just one room away, and the nightmare is over. It’s over.

His next breath sounds suspiciously like a sob, and he cuts it off immediately. _ Get a fuckin’ grip. It was just a stupid dream. _

But you can’t talk away demons - Crowley should know that best of all.

He blinks, just half a second, and he’s right back in the fire.

Forget sleeping.

He throws his legs off the edge of the bed and pushes to his feet, so fast it leaves him dizzy, reaching out to the wall for support. His legs are shakier than anticipated. Fuck this. _Damn_ this.

Dimly, he thinks Aziraphale would offer him tea. Not that he wants any, but if he’s not sleeping, might as well. Tea’s never made him feel  _ worse _ before, so it might be worth a try.

He doesn’t plan on checking. Really, he doesn’t. It doesn’t even occur to him, until he finds himself stopping in front of the door to the angel’s room, which is slightly ajar.

Why does this send his pulse skyrocketing again? Maybe he’d just been careless with closing it. Maybe he likes a bit of a draft. A door slightly ajar is not always a bad sign. It doesn’t mean hell came for you in the middle of the-

He’s nudging the door open further before he can even finish the thought. He just needs to know that the angel is here, that he’s okay. That’s all. Just to shut up his frantic brain. To prove the nightmare wrong.

But of course it’s never that easy. The bed isn’t in view of the door, so Crowley pushes inside, cutting across the floor with a slice of hallway light. He steps forward, towards the angel-shaped lump on the far side of the mattress, curled up under the blanket.

It should be good enough - but for some reason, Crowley feels himself starting to shake again. He recalls that Aziraphale doesn’t really take to sleeping, it’s more Crowley’s preference than anything else, so what if this isn’t the angel at all-

A floorboard creaks, curse Aziraphale and his pointless appreciation of  _ old things,  _ shit, oh please, please don’t wake-

“Crowley…?”

Shit.  _ Shit, shit, shit. _

“...what’s going on? Is everything alright?” 

Crowley remains frozen, realizing acutely that he might scream if he so much as unclenches his jaw.

Aziraphale turns towards him, sleep-soft and confused, and Crowley is aware of how strange he must look, to him, standing illuminated in the sliver of light, halfway between the bed and the door.

He just needed things to be okay.

The terror came from when he’d lost Aziraphale – when he’d thought, however briefly, in the grand cosmic scheme of things, that he was truly alone – but the angel is here now, he’s okay… it should be enough, shouldn’t it? By all accounts, Aziraphale is safe and warm and  _ here, _ and Crowley’s brain is being completely unreasonable.

The angel shifts closer, leaning up on one elbow, and even in the dim light (not that demons need any, not really) he can see the worry etched into Aziraphale’s features. He hesitates, then lifts his arm, beckons him closer.

“Crowley…?”

Softer, this time. Less confusion. More concern.

Crowley shakes his head, and is grateful when the angel seems to understand, dropping his hand back to his side.

“M’fine.” He pushes the word out through his teeth, and knows it’s not the least bit convincing. Against all reluctance and his better judgment, he forces his mouth open to add, “go back to sleep.”

How could he ever hope to explain why he’s here? He’s still sort of shaking, but he manages to turn away, poised to leave. He needs to get out of this room, before he disrupts Aziraphale even further. He needs to calm down. He needs-

“Crowley. Talk to me. What’s happening?”

Crowley shakes his head, and shit, those are tears, aren’t they? No, no, no. This nonsense needs to end, right now.

“…dream,” he forces out, hoping, praying that will be enough.

(Of course it won’t. Aziraphale cares too much and Crowley has no more defences. He can’t leave, not now. He turns back around, helplessly.)

Aziraphale frowns, sitting up fully. “…tell me…?”

Crowley raises his head to the heavens, and maybe he really does pray this time. Fat load of good it will do him.

“S’okay, angel. It’s over.”

“…you’re shaking.”

Crowley exhales, jagged and rough, before looking back to meet his gaze. “I’m fine-”

He can’t even attempt the ruse, not with the angel looking at him like that.

Aziraphale is an ethereal being, and as such, he is, as is his nature, filled with love. But not all angels are the same – his is not the righteous, blinding love that most angels seem to pride themselves on, the kind of love that humans can’t lay eyes on without losing their minds and vision, the kind that smites demons and cuts like a knife. The kind that, technically, does not feel like love at all, but like a weapon.

In fact, that’s the reason Crowley felt safe talking to him, all those years ago.

Aziraphale’s love isn’t white – it’s yellow. Warm, fuzzy, clumsy yellow that spills from him without pause or awareness, so it seems, and instead of burning and slicing, it rolls over you like a wave, all-encompassing and lifting you up. If Crowley was ever afraid to be scorched, that fear melted away the instant he got close enough to smell parchment and old wood, cinnamon and chocolate, to feel the radiant respect and fascination for all things human (and other) that Aziraphale encounters, the thirst for knowledge that emanates from him like an unearthly glow, and the endless, boundless love that he exudes with every breath.

Crowley had been sure the angel didn’t notice – why would he intentionally go around spilling love with every step, when none of the other angels did that? They didn’t spill – they employed their gifts with purpose and agenda, pointed miracles designed to awe as well as terrify. Obedience. Reverence.

Surely, he’d thought, Aziraphale must be considered defective in some way, and he refuses to realize that’s the reason Heaven treats him as disposable.

Nowadays, Crowley isn’t so certain anymore. Sometimes Aziraphale will do something so pointed, so calculated that he cannot imagine the angel is unaware of his own effect on the world around him.

Like now, just with a look.

His half-hearted attempt of brushing this off hangs empty between them, a ruse fooling absolutely no one.

Crowley knows better than to hold the angel’s gaze for too long – it burns, but not the scorching kind – but even so, he can feel a warmth and calm radiating towards him, a safety offered freely and selflessly, and he wants so badly to lose himself in it and forget everything that ever caused him pain.

“…you don’t have to talk about it,” Aziraphale says. “It’s okay.”

Crowley wants to run as far away as he can, or anchor himself in place so he’ll never have to be anywhere else.

Being a demon is hard.

Being a demon in love is near impossible.

Oh, he’s used to yearning. To pain. Fear and regret. Those are par for the course when you’re pining for your best friend, and of those he gets the full dose, being a demon and all. An unrelenting voice in the back of his head, reminding him at every turn that he will never get what he wants. And over the years, he’s fought it, ignored it, willed it away, until finally he’s resigned himself to coexisting with the part of him that’s wired for divine punishment. And maybe that’s really what damnation is – living with just enough hope to keep you getting disappointed, over and over and over until the end of eternity.

At least the angel’d still be there.

That’s what it’s always come back to, for Crowley. At least his angel would be there.

Not surprising, really, that he’s now haunted by a nightmare of the time he almost wasn’t.

Aziraphale’s love is radiant, in its own, clunky, awkward, wonderful way. Sure, space means nothing to a demon, Crowley could find him anywhere – but even without that ability, he’d never be far behind. Aziraphale glows like a beacon to him, powerful and endlessly endearing, like he’s got more love than he knows what to do with, so he just lets it slip out into the world.

Until that presence had suddenly vanished, as if he’d been wiped off the face of the earth. And the fire – who’d blame him for jumping to conclusions?

The rules have changed since the End of Days that Wasn’t. Damnation was not supposed to exist beyond the War – there’d be a winning side and no one else left, making the whole “damned for eternity” thing quite redundant. But since it Wasn’t, and the world continued to exist, that left many a demon and angel without clear instruction.

Not for lack of trying, on the part of Administration – Heaven and Hell need to keep running, in some capacity. Not that Crowley intends to go back to… whatever task Below might find for him.

He can’t be sure – both he and Aziraphale have been left (apprehensively) alone, for now. They’ve moved in together, since that felt most sensible, in case of a surprise attack – at least that’s the rational excuse. This proximity - well, Crowley considers that his damnation coming back with a vengeance, bringing them close enough for him to always wonder what it’d be like, but never be brave enough to actually make a change.

And now they’re here, one of them shaking, the other reaching out in compassion. Close, like they’ve always been. Like nothing at all has changed, even though everything has.

_ You don’t have to talk about it. _

Slowly, he steps towards the bed. Allows himself to sit, there on the edge. Within reach.

(It’s not the same.)

“I… it was… remembering,” he says, to fill the silence. An admission – and an indication of a willingness to talk, if given enough time.

“…hell?” Aziraphale prompts, scooting closer, just so.

_ Yes, my own personal one. The one where you’re gone and I’ll never see you again, until time ceases to exist. _

“…sort of.”

_ The one I grazed the surface of when I saw your books burn. _

“You don’t ever have to go back,” Aziraphale tells him.

But that’s not even true, at all. It’s only a matter of time. Strange, how that certainty is all he wants and all he knows he’ll never have. Damnation really is uncanny. Who’s to say it can’t happen again, even if Aziraphale doesn’t know what this is really about? Who’s to say hell won’t come after the angel, and heaven pursue the demon? Who’s to say holy water and hellfire aren’t waiting just around the corner?

Suddenly, it feels like he’s suffocating.

The last thing he wants is for the angel to die without knowing. In the past he wouldn’t risk their friendship for it, but this… maybe this is where he needs to take a step, let go, give in. It already feels like they’re on borrowed time.

“It’s not Hell,” he says, grasping for words inside his elusive brain. “Just… just mine.”

He doesn’t look over, but he doesn’t have to, he knows the frown working its way across Aziraphale’s forehead.

“…I don’t quite understand.”

“'S damnation. Or something like it. Reliving my worst memory, over and over.”

Aziraphale is silent for a moment, surely contemplating what that might be, what tortures Hell had devised for him after his Fall.

Defeat and exhaustion are creeping in. “S’got nothing to do with Hell.”

“…you’ve got memories worse than Hell?” Aziraphale shifts, and it’s clear he didn’t mean to blurt that out, didn’t mean to pry. He never does.

Crowley hesitates. “...just one.”

It’s clear from his expression that Aziraphale still doesn’t know what he means. Crowley can see the gears turning, and suddenly he can’t bear the thought of the angel ever finding out. He can’t bear to ever say it out loud and make the fear real – perhaps it truly is best to let it be, let it pass. Enjoy what they have, here and now, and not push it. Maybe that really is the best he can hope for.

“… it’s… is it my fault?” Aziraphale asks, quiet and uncertain – and Crowley can tell the guilt is seeping in, raw and all-consuming, no subtlety, no brakes.

“It’s- no, angel, it’s not your-”

“It’s not- it’s not when I threatened you, is it?” Aziraphale forces a chuckle,  _ no, that’s ridiculous, _ but his eyes tell a different story, of fear and regret. “With- with the sword? Crowley, I wouldn’t have-”

Crowley hastens to shake his head, to stomp this out before it can grow and fester. “No, no. That- no. I promise, it’s not that. I knew- I mean. I knew you wouldn’t.”

Aziraphale swallows, nods, his gaze dropping.  _ Stupid of him to think he’d matter that much, _ is what’s scrawled across his face, resignation, acceptance, and Crowley wants to cry.

“It’s about losing,” he says, before he can backtrack.

“…the War?” Surprise. Confusion.  _ That never happened. _

Suddenly, the word is easy, weightless. “You.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, closes it again. “…m-me? But- you’ve never-”

“Got close once,” Crowley mumbles, apprehension finally settling back in, like a weight in his stomach.  _ This is a mistake. Or is it? Isn’t it? _

“Wh- when did-”

“It doesn’t matter,” he cuts in, because it’s too much. He can’t voice it, can’t speak it out loud because that will give it weight, and it’s already dragging him down. They don’t both need to fall.

But of course, Aziraphale is too smart to not get there in the end, even if he might not quite grasp the implications.

“…when I got discorporated,” he says slowly. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t gone for long, but you-”

“…I tried to find you,” Crowley admits, turning away, because facing the wall is easier than facing this. “And everything was on fire.”

It’s just as he’d dreaded – the smoke is back, choking him, swirling in and blocking everything from view. The flames, consuming paper and wood, and  _ they could have been hellfire- _

“Crowley.”

He takes a ragged breath, drags his hands over his face. Blinks until the orange fades back to dark.

The bed dips, and a pair of legs swings down beside his own.

Aziraphale sits just close enough for comfort, but not so close as to crowd him. Just close enough so he could reach out, if he wanted to. An offer. A promise.

Crowley focuses on breathing, until everything else fades into the background.

“…I’m sorry.” The angel’s voice cuts through the silence, and Crowley shakes his head.

“‘s alright. You’re… we’re alright.”

He straightens up, determined to shake this off now, to have it be done. “Guess it left more of an impression than I thought. It’s over, and it’s fine. Dunno why I’d dream- it’s fine.”

It strikes him only now, how revealing this conversation has been. One memory worse than hell – losing Aziraphale. It’s the plain, naked truth, but maybe he shouldn’t have phrased it that way. Fuck.

Beside him, Aziraphale squirms, folding and re-folding his hands in his lap. Eventually, he raises his head and says: “Crowley, I-” just as Crowley starts, “Listen-”

They freeze, strangely comical, and Aziraphale looks rather distressed. Crowley expects him to shrink back, but instead he seems to find new confidence in the importance of what he was going to say, because he doesn’t gesture for Crowley to go first.

“Did you really- I mean. You were- you were that worried about me?”

Crowley sees no point in denying it, let alone any way to do it believably. So he sighs, clasping his own hands together in front of him. “You’re my best friend,” he says.

The angel deflates, and Crowley turns, sharply, not wanting to sow future confusion and misunderstandings. “I mean. That’s not- that’s not all, angel. You must know by now that’s- it’s not all there is. But I know I’ve been rushing you, and pushing too much, and you don’t have to- not ever, if that’s not what you want.”

He feels raw, once the words are out. Exposed. Can’t tear his eyes away from the angel’s face now, even though he’s terrified of what he’ll find.

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, softer than Crowley was expecting. “Crowley, I- I do. Just- I was always so- so afraid of… well, Heaven, really, and Hell, and what they’d do if they knew that I wanted- you know, as angels, we’re supposed to love all of God’s creations, but I don’t think that was meant to include-”

He cuts himself off, frustrated at his own apparent lack of words, hands curling into fists in his lap. “Of course I knew, but you- I wouldn’t presume to take a risk like that, for both of us? And when you asked me to run away with you, I wanted- I wanted so  _ badly  _ to say yes, but I thought I could fix it, could make everything go back to normal and then we could continue just as we had, and eventually I knew I would give in, because I’m really quite besotted with you, Crowley, I just- there was so much to consider, and I was afraid, so I used it as an excuse to keep you waiting-”

He turns, abruptly, to look back at Crowley, who has forgotten to breathe for fear of mishearing, of letting himself hope too much. The small, apologetic smile cuts right to his chest like a dart or an arrow, lodging deep in a feeling he’s been forcing down for centuries. The softest of sounds escapes him, and Aziraphale exhales in response, ever the empath.

“I’ve loved you for the longest time,” the angel says, and the tension seeps away from him, shoulders relaxing, hands unclenching, “and I wish I’d said it sooner. You deserved to hear it sooner. And I’m sorry, so sorry for being so careless as to let you think that I was gone for good. Because it really was just rotten luck, and I knew- I should have known you’d come back for me. You always do.”

Crowley stares.

He knows he’s on the edge of something, pressure higher than it’s ever been. His whole body feels like it’s thrumming with electricity, mind racing frantically to process what’s happening. It’s building, building, until-

“...angel,” he says, helplessly, and his voice breaks.

He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, not that it matters, because relief is crashing through him like a wave.

Aziraphale reaches between them, extends a hand.  _ Has he always been reaching out? _

Crowley moves, then, allows their fingers to slot together, Aziraphale’s palm warm against his own.

“...oh,” he says, eyes flicking down to their hands, then back up, “ _ oh- _ ”

The angel smiles, indulgent, patient, the way he’s always been, and more than anything, that feels like coming home.

And the rest, well, they’ll figure it out.

Crowley holds Aziraphale’s hand, still a little detached, but it feels like  _ oh, there you are, _ and  _ finally, _ and maybe that’s enough. Maybe, after six thousand years, he doesn’t need any more clever quips, for once. He’s still shaking, just so, but Aziraphale is warm (so warm) and steady, and he doesn’t coddle, and he’s not too distant, he’s just  _ there _ and Lord Above, Crowley will take it, will take everything that led him to this moment and set it in stone because it’s  _ right. _

If he sheds a tear over this, it is not mentioned. After such a speech, Aziraphale does right to wait him out, and offer the hand that grounds him.

And when, even after minutes, all Crowley says is, “Shit, angel- I love you” - well. That’s perfectly alright.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm... soft.  
> frenchibi on tunglr.hell (you know the drill, no actual links but I'm easy to find - also on insta if you wanna see my art)
> 
> Just out of interest - if you subscribed to me for Haikyuu fics, are you down for more Omens stuff? Are you even still here? I wrote a fic for a zine (which I mod-ed) that I might still post, so even though my current interest has shifted, I still have some stuff to share, do y'all still wanna see it? Pls give me some sort of feedback, just to gouge interest :'D


End file.
